


Akeldama

by kalypsobean



Category: Jesus Christ Superstar - All Media Types
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Implied D/S relationship, M/M, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 23:55:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17151416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalypsobean/pseuds/kalypsobean
Summary: What if Judasdidn'tdie? Or did he?





	Akeldama

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SegaBarrett](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SegaBarrett/gifts).



_Well, that was stupid_ , he thinks as he hits the ground, pain lancing through his ankles and reverberating upwards.

"I'll find a way!" he yells up at the sky. "Just you wait!"

His gaze catches on the pinky-red flowers still falling from the branch. Some land on his shoulders and arms, and refused to be brushed off. They felt waxy and smooth and he kept thinking _oh, I'm bleeding_ and then _it's just another flower_ and _why won't it go away_. For a moment, seemingly endless for all that went through his mind, he just lay there, the sun scorching his eyes in a manner that he hoped would make him blind. A cloud passed, then another, and his vision adjusted. He screamed again, this time a wordless howl that echoed back to him once he was out of breath, and forced himself to stand.

  
He was pleased that there was some pain; he deserved some marks for what he had done, the flowers would eventually fall and blindness would not brand him visibly enough. Pain, at least, would remind him and dog his steps in such a way that he would be avoided, for limping was as good as a brand.

 

The walk back to the city was not that long; he'd walked further and longer with Jesus in minutes, even with the frequent stopping to bless or heal or smile or just for the crowd to clear. This time, though, it feels like forever and he stumbles frequently, though gradually the pain fades and he can walk more freely. It helps that the streets are empty, slightly curiously for Passover, but not worthy of note but for the sound of a crowd, somewhere near. He walks towards the noise; it ebbs and flows, with loud cries punctuating a low hum, but as he gets closer he can hear a single voice echoing from the buildings.

He has to use a column to prop him up when he reaches the square; he's come out near the palace, and he has to hang back a bit to avoid the notice of the Romans. The priests are lined up on the far side from him, a thing he notes with relief, though that is short-lived as the crowd roars again and another voice cuts through them, one he knows intimately, achingly well.

_It's you who say I am / I know the truth and find that I get damned_

His own pain seems trivial in comparison.

 

He'd watched them beat Jesus before, which is why he'd tried to return the money and gone off in the first place, and it was hard to watch then. This time it's worse; the Roman scourge is known for killing people before they reach the prescribed punishment, and Judas knows it's more than what Jesus can take.

The first beatings had been minor in comparison, and they weren't designed for inflicting pain. What had bothered him at the time was that they were casual and thoughtless, almost done out of habit than any real desire to establish dominance. The Romans hadn't needed to convince Jesus to cooperate or to punish him for acting out; if there was any purpose to them at all, it was to torture those watching, and the laughter that accompanied each new injury did that far more effectively.

  
He resolves that is not going to let them get in his head again; he won't give in again, he won't let them use Jesus like that. What hits him this time, though, as they tie Jesus to the post and raise the scourge, the metal tips catching just enough light to glint, is the urge to run out and pull Jesus away from them, to run away and drag Jesus behind him until they were far enough away that hiding had a chance of being effective. If his ankle didn't twinge just then, as the first strike hit, he may have; he steps forward, but it's as if resting has magnified the issue or reduced his tolerance, and he can only watch. Instead he curls and uncurls his fingers, as if all the rage and jealousy can be controlled if he just had an outlet.

 

It's at the ninth stroke that Jesus gives in and cries out. Judas feels something break inside his chest at the sound. The crowd cheer and somehow grow even louder, and Annas raises an arm to encourage them. _This isn't for you_ , he thinks, and then his vision narrows and the only thing he can see is Jesus breaking down. Part of what makes it hard to watch is that he knows where to stop to prevent that, to prolong it in a way that can keep Jesus on edge for days, trapped in a haze of not-quite-thinking sensation that sometimes seemed to be his only escape and only strength. He can almost feel Jesus searching for that narrow headspace that would let him endure just that bit longer, take the scourge with grace enough to fit the role he made for himself, and the anguish as each stroke yanked him back into the real, exquisitely painful world.

The thirty-ninth stroke hit and Jesus is released, falling to the ground and rolling, unable to even stop himself from that, and Judas tries to cry out; either his voice is swallowed by the swell of the crowd, or he has no sound left to give. Whatever spell had held him still is broken, though, and he sinks to his knees, noticing for the first time that he too is bleeding, he too has tears falling. It's then that Jesus looks up, as if listening to that secret, silent voice that marked him as different, and Judas looked back, steadying himself as best he could.

This is the last thing he can do for his friend.

Jesus speaks to Pilate. As he speaks, the shaking stops and he loses the panicked, terrified expression; he even smiles, and Judas has a giddy moment in which he thinks _that's it, it's going to be alright now_. Then Jesus reaches out, almost as if reaching for him, and when the Roman guard pull him back it feels like part of him is being torn out, the part that was being sought, the part that wanted to run out and stop everything; the part that Jesus had once told him to suppress, if he was going to be able to help.

 

He's swept up and carried along in the procession, every time he stumbles someone pushes him along until he recovers, and somehow, even though the crowd spreads along the road and doesn't seem to move, he's never far away from Jesus. It's a blessing and a curse, because Jesus keeps finding him; every time Jesus falls, he looks up and finds Judas and forces himself back up, as if he has no strength of his own to draw from.

_Why keep putting yourself through this?_ , he thinks, and in one of those looks, he almost thinks there's an answer; he almost understands, and then the crowd sweep them up again, and the guard force Jesus up the hill, where Judas can't yet follow.

 

He won't pretend that it doesn't hurt to see Romans, of all people, putting their hands on someone he's spent many months regarding as his. He will pretend that that is the pain he feels; his feet and hands burning and swelling from the nails, his side aching from the lance. It is not easier to watch, but it feels right, somehow, that part of this pain should be his. He stays after the crowds thin, and after they take the ladders away, when it's just the guard and the others, and he stands watch when they send someone to ask permission to take Jesus' body down.

It's only when they close the tomb that he stumbles, aimless, back to that field and that tree. He's not sure why, exactly; since Jesus breathed out he's felt weak and aimless, and the pain has been harder to ignore, and it seemed as good a place as any. Private, at least, though when the nausea hits, he regrets that.

And then, he doesn't.


End file.
